2013-02-24 Feeding The Machine
One has been staying very, very busy over the last few days. The technology he and Selina purloined from Organitech's research facility dominates his living area. The components taken from a cybernetic hand are spread out across the kitchen counter. A trio of complex-looking microchips and a miniaturized CPU have taken over the dining table. Presently, the doctor is at his desk, hunched low over the salvaged data storage unit. It's plugged into a powerful, portable computer that's mounted into a titanium case. The hard drive is similar enough to his own that he's attempting to interface with it directly. A second cable runs from the slot behind his false ear and into the other end of the case-mounted computer. Though his eyes are open, only the whites are visible as he strains to force his way through foreign encryption protocols and layer upon layer of protective software. His usual security measures are in place. No alarms, no warnings of any kind. Just lethal traps at every conceivable entrance. In addition, his antiquated revolver is resting next to him on the desk, and a Russian machine pistol can be seen poking out from under the edge of a cloth spread over the couch. Most people would think that when someone gives you their address in case of emergency, you would have an -actual- emergency before you show up on their doorstep. But Fern is from Ohio. A freshly made pizza from Julius and no one to share it with is surely an emergency, no? The owner of Anita Bella was in a mood to cook on his own today, and he certainly does make the best pizza when he sets his mind to it. Which one might consider a little odd from a New York Jew, but he's been married to Anita for so long some of the Italian has rubbed off. And in the most tasty of ways. Fern memorized the address One mentioned to her, and is now prowling the hall, looking for the correct door number, a pizza box balanced over one arm. It's not until she finds the right door and raises her hand to knock that she stops to think that maybe this isn't exactly what he meant when he passed the information on to her. She pauses, lips pursing thoughtfully, then raps on the door anyway, fives times in rapid succession. The young woman takes a step backward, having learned that she's a bit short to be seen properly through a peephole if she stands too close to the door. Now that she's considered, there's something of a sheepish look on her face as she studies the solid wood, glancing up to the peephole. It takes a moment before any sounds penetrate One's technology-induced trance. Very slowly, his eyes roll back into their proper position and he blinks several times. As if waking from a long sleep, he stands slowly and shakes his head, clearing some intangible fuzz from his thoughts. Then, clearly irritated at this interruption, he strides over to the heavy door and slides aside the disc of steel that covers the fisheye. Fern. It's Fern. "Uh... Be there in just a tick," the doctor calls. Now he springs into action. He grabs several of the clean sheets that he keeps around to cover his couch during trauma examinations. Quickly, they are spread over each of his sensitive projects. It's not exactly discreet, but it does keep them out of sight. All but the muzzle of the machine pistol and the claymore mine wired to his window, both of which he's forgotten in his foggy haste. Not to mention the inevitable bloodstains on the carpet that come from treating stab wounds, GSWs, and similar injuries in his home office. There's only so much One can do, though. After a dubious glance around his apartment, he twists the knob that operates the four-way bolt, opens the door, and smiles tiredly at Fern. He's dressed even more informally than usual. Soft slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone. Both are a bit distressed from many hours spent hunched over his desk. Fern can hear the snick of the steel disc and directs a smile up at the peephole, exaggerating it in an attempt to look endearing. "Okay!" she calls back cheerfully, unaware of the project she's interrupted. She's waiting expectantly as the door opens, and holds up the box immediately, blurting, "Julius made me a pizza and I can't eat it all by myself and I was just around the corner so I thought you might like some too." She's in civilian clothes again, but at least it's not pajamas this time. Her tatty old navy blue bomber jacket hangs around her, unbuttoned to reveal the v-neck t-shirt below, powder blue with a dark blue stripe bisecting at her waist. Faded jeans hug her comfortably, and there are black, steel toed boots on her feet. She's taken to wearing them instead of her tennis shoes when out, after her much too interesting night last week. A glance goes past him, and a soft, concerned frown touches her lips. "I'm interrupting," she surmises, thinking that with everything covered as it is, he must be painting or something. One has agreed not to lie to her. He glances over his shoulder, shrugs, and nods. "Yes," he admits. "But if someone was going to interrupt me, I'm glad it was you." A long, heavy moment passes while he considers his options. None of them are perfect. Finally, he steps aside and opens the door a bit wider. "Come on in. Just..." he trails off and glances around the small apartment that serves as both his home and his place of business. As covered as everything is, there's still a great deal of telltale signs to be seen and not much he can say about them. Instead, he clears his throat and changes the subject. "How are you today?" The confirmation of her summation has Fern chewing lightly on her lip, and she's about to apologize and slink away when he pulls the door open more and invites her in. This has her smile back, if a little uncertainly, and she stomps her feet to dislodge any lingering snow so as not to track his apartment up. As she slips past him, she promises to an unstated admonishment, "I promise, I won't touch anything." Not with her hands, anyway, but her eyes roam at once. She can't help the curiosity that fills her, granted admittance to his domain. Somehow, she's not entirely surprised to see no signs that he's been painting, despite the draped sheets. If she notices anything particularly weapon looking, it doesn't register immediately, despite her knowledge of the gun he carries, and she turns, once in, and pulls her smile back up to direct at him. "I'm alright. You hadn't come in, so I thought maybe you were doing that 'I don't need to eat' thing." She nails a fairly accurate imitation of his light accent, continuing on, "And I don't want you to starve, no matter what you say." One can't help but smile at this. He inclines his head briefly, his eyes locked on Fern's. By this time, his injuries have faded so thoroughly that not even the pink traces of pending scars remain. It's as if he'd never been damaged. After a few seconds of eye contact, he averts his gaze and clears his throat. "You're very kind to me." It's not just a statement of fact, it's an expression of gratitude. Then a new predicament becomes apparent. Most of the flat space in his apartment is occupied by his cloth-covered works in progress. "Hold on. Just let me..." In the end, he sighs, shrugs, and shifts the sheet that covers his desk. With deliberate care, he closes the titanium computer case and moves it to the kitchenette counter, along with his Webley and the complex data storage unit. Shifting the high-tech gear and the ancient revolver gives them access to some sort of table and two chairs, at least. "There we go. Sorry. I've been working. Just trying to figure some things out. It's... complicated." "I did say I'm never gonna stop trying," Fern reminds One with a smirk. "If you won't take care to 'feed the machine' someone has to make sure you do. Even if you aren't hungry, ya gotta keep fuel going in." It's a way she's always thought about eating, and it's kind of weirdly appropriate in this case. She looks around for a place to set the pizza down, her attention settling on One as he pulls one of the sheets back. The gun doesn't startle her, knowing it's the one he was wearing and likely wears all the time. Which is odd for a doctor, but he's certainly not just any doctor. Another fact confirmed by the odd laptop case he has, and the computer stuff that he moves. Her eyes follow him until she can finally step forward and put the pizza box down. "No no, I should be apologizing for interrupting you," she says earnestly, "I just didn't think. I won't stay long." It's a promise she'll keep, but only because she has to. She'd rather stay in the bubble of security that seems to surround the man. Well, for her, at least. There's a visible flinch from the doctor at the word 'machine'. He tries to cover it, but his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. A few seconds pass as his back turns to Fern. A deep breath. Another. When he turns back around, his features have softened again. "Don't worry about it," he replies. "You surprised me, but it's always good to see you." He pulls out a chair for Fern, then takes a seat across from her with the pizza between them. Almost as an afterthought, he picks up a discarded shirt from the floor and tosses it over the explosive that's attached to his window. After that, it's time to address the elephant in the room. "None of this--" he waves his hands to indicate the apartment's condition, the obvious secrecy, and the many odd things that are still visible. "--is a problem for you? I figured you'd take one look in here and start having second thoughts." Fern slides into the chair, one leg tucked under as she usually does to give herself an extra boost. Small hands settle on the pizza box, but she's stopped from flapping it open by One's words. Her eyes raise to his face, holding there on the now familiar features, and her voice is softer when she responds. "I barge in when you aren't expecting it... I can't exactly start quizzing you about everything." Her eyes dart away, taking in odd lumps here and there, finally drifting to spy what looks like another gun tucked into the sofa before returning to him. "The other day I saw a woman get shot and she was still able to run away. A guy's eyes glowed red. I met an angel... did I tell you about that? I think I forgot to mention it." She pauses. "All I know is I don't feel as safe with anyone else. Is there anything you -want- to tell me?" she counters. "You met the Worthington kid? I know him by reputation." One seems a bit surprised for a moment, then shifts in his seat and rolls his shoulders. "There are a lot of people in this city who are different," he acknowledges. "Special. Strange. Whatever you want to call it." Another pause, this time a long one. He stands back up and turns to face the window. Then, with a now-or-never sort of swiftness, he makes his admission. "I'm one of them," he says without turning back to face Fern. He views her through her reflection in the glass. "Not telling you that is no better than lying to you." Fern only nods at the question about Warren, feeling that something bigger is coming just by the way One goes on. She doesn't try to rush him into what he's going to say, waiting patiently for him to take his own time about it. Her eyes stay on him as he turns away, but with his back turned, not realizing he's looking at her reflection, her face softens and genuine, unguarded affection shows. "I know you're special," she says softly, meaning more than he does by the simple word. "You carry a big gun. You know how to do stitches and I don't even know what else. You're obviously over twenty-five and you'd never had apple juice before." That last is a bit lighter, but not making light of the situation. The casual acceptance is pleasing. One can't help but smile. Still, he's shaking his head. "That's not really what I meant. I..." Fear isn't something he feels often, but now it grips at his belly and constricts his chest. This is his last chance to back out of the conversation, and he's hesitating. "I don't want to frighten you," he admits quietly. "The only people who aren't scared of me are other scary people. I don't want you to be afraid of me." There's the sound of Fern scooting her chair back as she rises, and she moves around the desk, stepping up beside One at the window. She doesn't attempt to turn him, but instead faces the window as well, her eyes now finding his in the reflection as she reaches to take his hand in hers. While the open affection has been tucked back into it's place, there's clearly no fear in the eyes that hold his in the window. The one thing that gives away her trepidation at what he might have to say is the squeeze of her hand on his. "I won't be scared of you," she says quietly, sincerely. "I believe you." One squeezes Fern's hand in return, then gently extracts himself. He makes his way around the counter and rummages through a drawer in the kitchenette that's been reserved for small tools. After only a few seconds, he finds what he's looking for. It's a steel crowbar, eighteen inches long, much used and slightly rusted. He hefts it experimentally, then nods, unaware that this could be considered as frightening as anything else. There's no evil plan at work here, though. "Watch," he says. Then he takes a single deep breath, exhales halfway, and bends the bar into a neat 'U' shape. Though it appears to take some effort, he's panting more from nervousness than exertion by the time he's finished. Very slowly, he sets the bent chunk of steel down on the counter. "Uh. Yeah. I can do that." Fern lets go of One reluctantly, her fingers sliding away as he moves and she lets her hand drop. He's not the only nervous one, and she lets her coat slide off her shoulders, catching it in her hands as she shrugs it off, tossing it casually toward the sofa. It lands covering the weapon tucked into the cushions. The instruction to watch is unnecessary, her eyes never leaving him. Sure, that heft could mean he's about to bash her head in with the crowbar, but that doesn't even near her thoughts. Without realizing it, she holds her breath as well as One, letting it go in a soft huff as he sets what used to be a serviceable crowbar down. Her eyes have widened, and she steps forward, reaching out to touch the metal, as if testing that it's not made of nerf or something. "Whoa," she breathes softly. "You sure can." "And that's just the tip of the iceberg," he admits. The organic construct shifts his feet, but the fact that his one normal friend isn't running for the hills has him smiling. "I can do lots of other things, too. My physiology is... unique." That's putting it mildly, but all One can do is shrug. Who and what he is makes for a very long, very complicated story. Better to dole it out a piece at a time so it can be digested at a safe rate. That's probably a really good idea, because while she's dealing well, she still looks a little... stunned. Her finger pushes at the crowbar, finding it quite solid as would be expected. Without thinking she reaches up, her hand landing on One's upper arm, a light squeeze checking the muscles there. Solid, sure, but normal feeling. Her hand slides away, again with that reluctance to break contact. "So... you really don't need to eat regularly?" Sensing her reluctance, One reaches up to catch Fern's hand with one of his own. "It depends on my level of activity. If I'm healing up or bending steel bars or throwing cars around, I need to eat a lot more than the average person." He shrugs again and his smile turns a bit lopsided. "If it's a slow week, I can live on about a half-liter of water a day for up to a week without slowing down. Not that it's much fun." Finding her hand back in his eases Fern, and she looks to be leaving the stunned behind. Her smile curves at such a casual mention of 'throwing cars around'. "Are you... human?" she asks gently, and there's still a soft hint of trepidation at what the answer might be. She may not have much experience, but she's heard about the Mutants and alien life and whatnot. Radioactivity giving people weird powers. But she knows, when she was clinging to him in her apartment, she heard his heart beating. It was strong and reassuring. But was it a heart? The doctor looks down at their joined hands and his brow furrows darkly. His adrenaline-fueled burst of strength has faded, leaving him feeling weak and empty. "I haven't decided yet," he replies. It's as honest an answer as he's able to give. "But... not completely, no," he elaborates. "I wasn't born. I was created." Fern lifts her other hand, pressing it flat to the center of his chest. She can feel the thumping there. "But... you have a heart? And you get hurt, I saw that with my own eyes. You bleed?" There's a pause, as Fern swallows, then licks her lips. "And... you feel?" Such a vague term, 'feel', that can be taken in so many ways. "I have a heart. I bleed. And I feel." One steps closer. Now only Fern's hand keeps the two of them separated. He reaches out to brush the backs of his knuckles against her cheekbone. It's a familiar, affectionate gesture. "Very much so." Familiar, affectionate, and so reassuring. Fern's eyes close and she sighs at the caress, taking a second before she looks back up at One. There's a quality to her regard for a moment that he hasn't seen before, not from her, maybe not ever. Longing. It takes her a moment to shift her eyes away, dropping them, apparently suddenly finding his adam's apple fascinating. His revelations so far haven't pushed her away, confirmed by softly spoken words. "It can't be easy for you to tell your secrets. It means a lot to me." Once his initial touch is accepted, One grows bolder. He cups his hands against Fern's cheeks and tips her head back gently. When he looks her in the eye, there's an air of relaxation and relief about him that is new, even to himself. And there's something more. "It means a lot to me, too," he murmurs back, holding her gaze. Her eyes raise as her face is tilted, locking with his, trapped willingly. The hand at his chest curls, taking a light grip on his shirt and likely adding a wrinkle or two, and her other hand settles lightly at his waist. A part of her screams 'Say something!' but she can't. It feels like no matter what comes to her head it would either be too much, or too little. Long, nimble fingers trail around the sides of Fern's face. One's nails drag gently against her scalp as he buries his hands in her hair. Her clean, feminine scents of soap and shampoo are alluring, especially to a man who sees so little of things that are normal and special at the same time. He doesn't say anything. There's nothing in his vocabulary that fits this situation. Despite his inexperience, instinct kicks in. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, only what he wants to do, what he's wanted to do since he had his first root beer float. One closes his eyes and bends down to kiss Fern. It's that feeling of being suspended for a moment, caught in a tick of the clock filled with anticipation and yearning. Fern didn't know just how much she wanted this until now. She'd entertained the thought, but hadn't let it stray too far. He's a doctor. Or... something. She's a waitress. Not even an actress. But as soon as she realizes his intent she pushes up on her toes, so he won't have to bend so far, her grip on his shirt tightens, and her lips meet his. It's a soft press, warm and affectionate, lingering before she moves to pull back just enough to look at One's face, lowering back onto her heels. One is faster than an economy car and built with comparable stamina. It's not often that he's out of breath, but he certainly seems to be at the moment. He blinks, inhales, and his mouth widens slightly. Surprise and pleasure twinkle in his eyes as he exhales. "Hi," he breathes, smiling down at Fern. He untangles his fingers, but they continue to stroke and trail through her soft locks. His eyes remain fixed on her face, but now he's studying individual features. The curve of her lips. The arch of her nose. The shape of her brow. Each detail is committed to memory, freezing this moment of time so that it can be saved and remembered. That single syllable is enough to clear some of the fog that had slipped into Fern's brain, and the curve of her lips broadens into a smile to mirror his own. "Hi," she returns softly. Her hand unclenches, releasing his shirt, and she looks down, then up again, sheepishly, as she attempts to smooth the fabric over his chest. "Sorry about your shirt," she murmurs, sounding anything but. A strong hand catches up Fern's. "I'm not," One replies, grazing his thumb against the backs of her knuckles. "I have lots of shirts, but I only have one of you to squeeze wrinkles into them." It doesn't make sense. At times likes these, many things don't. His smile widens. "I've wanted to do that for a while," he admits. It makes perfect sense to Fern, and she lets her hand drift up from his chest, fingertips settling at his jaw before softly stroking. Her touch glides over his skin, tickles his earlobe and comes to rest at the side of his neck. One brow lifts as she poses a question. "Do you want to do it again?" "It feels like I've been waiting a thousand years for you to ask," One replies sincerely as he leans into Fern's touch. This time he slides his arms down and around the small of her back, boosting her up and lifting her feet off the ground. The first kiss was gentle. Tentative. Exploratory. This one is far bolder. Fern moves her arms as One's hands drop, her own going up, a soft squeak at the unexpected boost dissolving into giggles as she's lifted so easily. As her arms wrap around his neck she's keenly aware of the warmth of his body against hers, and there's a moment of indecision before she just wraps her legs around his waist, mindful of her heavy boots. And then there's only another kiss. She barely gets a breath before it's taken by his lips, almost unsure at first, but she responds naturally to his daring. Her fingers ruffle into his hair, before her right hand drops to his neck again, a soft squeeze, a tickle to his earlobe and his ear.... moves. There has never been a more sudden end to a kiss, as she jerks back, but doesn't disentangle herself. "Oh my god, did I hurt you?" she asks, panicked. "Oh, shit." They're the first words that come to One's mind, and seem to accurately sum up the situation. A moment ago there was kissing. Now there's... this. "No. No, it's okay. It's. Uh. Fake. It slides aside. Watch." He clears his throat, supports Fern's slight weight easily with one arm, and reaches up with his free hand to open the access panel behind his false ear. Now it's time for the real moment of truth. His data storage unit is visible. It's almost identical to the one he shifted off of his desk earlier. The small CPU mounted to it is identical to one hidden under a cloth only a few feet away. He even has a set of three mounted chips that are very similar to the ones he's stolen and studied. Wiring. Lights. USB ports and proprietary ports and other ports of all shapes and sizes for interfacing with various devices. It's all there, and more, and it's all completely inorganic. As if Fern's heart wasn't already beating in her throat, this has added considerable speed to it. The hand that nearly dislodged his ear is resting against her chest, as if holding said heart from bursting right through. She takes a second before she shifts, leaning to see another of his secrets. A light frown settles on her face, but she still makes no move to unwrap herself and regain her feet. Her tone is hard to read as she asks, "You're a computer?" "Just my brain. The rest is flesh and blood." One gives her a few more seconds to study his complex inner workings, even turning his head a bit so she can better see what he's got under the hood. Then he slides his ear back into place and turns to face her as he lowers her to the floor. "I told you I was different. Things were going so well... I didn't want to ruin it by telling you too much too quickly." Tries to lower her to the floor, anyway. Fern appears not to be so inclined, and keeps her legs rather comfortably wrapped around One's middle. She touches his ear carefully, letting her fingers wander to where she now knows there is a panel. There's a soft little dialog going as she thinks. "So your brain is a computer. I guess every brain is sort of a computer." Her fingers press lightly, then move as if seeking a seam or some telltale sign. "You think. You feel. You hurt." She nods, looking directly at One, and repeats, "You feel. I know you do." A crooked smile pulls her lips. "We were in the middle of something." One's attempt turns into a dip. Gracefully, he bends down and grazes his lips against Fern's cheek, all the while holding her in a pseudo-tango pose so low that her hair trails the floor. Breathless once more, he lifts her back up and looks her in the eye. "I feel," he agrees. "Oh, I feel." Pressed together, his heart hammering against his ribs, he leans in for another kiss. His fear and trepidation have evaporated. The acceptance, the desire and longing, they're adding to his confidence. THUMP. Fern's back thuds against a wall, but the impact is cushioned by One's elbows. His hand has found her hair again, while his other arm loops under her legs to support her. The return of his lips to hers is received eagerly, arms tightening around his neck. A soft sound comes when they collide lightly with the wall, almost a whimper, and she deepens the kiss. Now she is aware, and she curls her fingers in his hair with a gentle tug. This is it. Without knowing it, this is what One has needed. This steady, anchoring presence. Proof that being a machine doesn't exclude him from being a man. He lets out a low, pleasant rumble, reaches above his head, and gropes around until he finds the chain for the overhead light. Once it's off, the only illumination comes via a faint glow from the kitchen. The wall. The counter. The desk. The desk again. One has no idea how much time passes. Only that it's not enough, and that he'll always want more. Every time he thinks he's sated, all he has to do is look at Fern or hear her whisper his name and he's proven wrong. Now, though, even he gasps for breath as he lays Fern down on some spare sheets and blankets tossed into a heap on the floor. He curls around her, cradling her against his chest. "Wow," he sighs. "Yours. Definitely yours." Fern tangles her limbs with One's, head resting on his chest so she can hear the beating of his heart. If Mister Stamina is short of breath, what of the poor little waitress? The hair around her face is damp, but her smile is happy, if tired. "I couldn't be anyone else's," she states, leaving no room for debate. She twists, stretching to kiss him, the urgency tempered back down to comfortable affection. She's famished, but too tired now to do anything about it. The pizza will still be there. As she starts to drift off in One's embrace, Fern complains lightly, "You need to get a bed." Category:Logs Category:RPLogs